Two days later, there was a commotion in the hallway. I opened my door to find the landlord standing outside Bob’s apartment, his voice raised in irritation.
“Bob! You in there?” he called, knocking sharply.
I could hear movement inside, but the door remained closed.
The landlord turned to me, his expression a mix of frustration and impatience.
“He’s got to pay by Friday, or he’s out,” he said, as if I held some sway over the situation.
“I know,” I replied, feeling the futility of the conversation.
The landlord grunted, returning his attention to the door.
“Bob!”
Finally, the door opened, and Bob appeared, looking more worn than ever.
“It’s coming,” he said quietly, though we all knew it was a promise he couldn’t keep without a miracle.
“It better be,” the landlord replied curtly, before turning on his heel and leaving.
Bob and I exchanged a look, a shared understanding of the precariousness of his situation.
“You okay?” I asked, though the answer was obvious.
“I’ll manage,” he said, a faint, forced smile playing on his lips.
“If there’s anything—”
“I know,” he interrupted, the repetition a familiar refrain between us now.
The door closed again, and I was left in the hallway, the echo of the landlord’s ultimatum lingering in the air.
It seemed like an impossible task, for Bob to find a way out of this mess, but I held onto hope that maybe, somehow, he would.
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